


Abattoir

by father (joursdenfantsmorts)



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Serial Killer!Will, dark!Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-12 17:34:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joursdenfantsmorts/pseuds/father
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will shows up injured in Hannibal's office one night; Hannibal gets his hands dirty and learns something interesting about Will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd.

"Will?" Hannibal called softly, stepping cautiously though the open doors of his office. It was nearly ten o'clock at night; Hannibal had finished his appointments at four in the afternoon-- he took less work on Saturdays-- and gone home to prepare dinner from the cheeks of a particularly flabby car mechanic. Settling down after the meal, he realised that he had left his briefcase at his office; he'd immediately driven out to retrieve it. When he arrived, the doors to his office had been unlocked and the light from desk lamp had been visible from the hallway. He'd become instantly wary, as he knew he was not so lackadaisical as to forget to lock up. Either Will had come in with the key Hannibal had presented him with earlier in the week, or there was an intruder to dispose of.

A slight groan came from the far end of his desk, where the telephone was. Stepping over, Hannibal caught a whiff of fresh blood and sweat. There was a muffled thump, and a familiar mop of hair connected with the floor in front of Hannibal's desk.

"Hannibal," Will wheezed quietly, struggling to lift his head from the floor. 

Surprised–- and the use of his first name did not pass him by–- Hannibal grabbed Will under the arms to lift him up, only to have the man bark in pain.

"Hannibal! Wait. I don't know if I'm going to throw up yet." 

Hannibal carefully levered him back down, concerned but amused. Will closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, visibly trying to minimise the movements of his torso. Hannibal imagined he could see Will's diaphragm push silently under his ribs, and noticed a few dark gashes across Will's left ribcage. It was impossible to tell the extent of the damage in such inadequate lighting, but Will's shirt was beyond saving. He rose to turn the ceiling lights on, taking out the first aid kit in his desk on the way back to Will. 

It was evident to Hannibal that Will had chosen his medical expertise over a hospital's; why, he wasn't yet sure, but he had to admit it was an excellent opportunity for him to encroach on a bit more of Will's trust. 

"I assume someone came calling, Will," Hannibal said, "as you are not exactly the type to go looking for trouble. Are there any other injuries I should be aware of? I would prefer to move you to a more optimal surface to evaluate the damage."

"…Yes," Will replied haltingly, "I have a concussion. My wrists hurt, I think they have rope burn." He swallowed, blinking disorientedly. "I was strangled too, so there's that." Will tilted his head slowly to look back at Hannibal. "You can move me. It just feels like the skin on my chest is splitting every single time I twitch." 

Hannibal tsked softly as he removed his jacket and gathered Will in his arms. The man was ridiculously light; he could swear that Will wasn't even half the weight of the man he'd eaten a few hours earlier. Settling him down on his tastefully cliché therapist's couch, Hannibal moved his desk lamp over and sanitized Will's wounds. Under the light, he found seven distinct knife cuts ranging from barely a millimetre's depth to half an inch at the deepest, and two fingernail scratches; the abrasions on Will's wrists were indeed from rope. Hannibal glanced up at Will's tired face after his assessment. "The cuts on your chest will not heal quickly, Will. The knife was very sharp. A few of them have reached the bone of your ribs. Thankfully it's not serious."

Will closed his eyes with a small grimace. "It was a scalpel."

"Ah. I suspected as much."

Hannibal stood and poured a glass of water for Will, adding a mild analgesic from his cabinet. He moved around Will to check his head for impact points and bleeding; Will kept quiet until Hannibal gently prodded a patch of hair matted with dried blood. 

"I presume this is the source of your concussion. You will have to tell me what happened, Will, I believe this sort of thing is quite serious in your line of work." Hannibal poured some sterilised water over Will's scalp, disinfecting the bloody mess before rolling bandages over Will's chest and wrists. "Also, please stay awake. I think you know the procedures."

Briefly, he palpated Will's throat to check the extent of the bruising. Will's uncomfortable swallow as his fingers found the large, hand-shaped mass of livid bruises filled Hannibal with possessive rage-- what _nerve_ this man had, to touch something that was his. Unless Will had already disposed of the perpetrator (unlikely), Hannibal was quite certain that his next meal would die in a most unpleasant fashion. He breathed shallowly though his nose, stroking his anger into submission. 

"Was he any good?" he asked as he cleaned up the area. 

"What?"

"With the scalpel," he clarified, turning around to look Will in the eye. If he was, all the better; there was nothing quite like telling a medical man how he was going to be eviscerated. 

Will looked at him oddly. "I can't be sure. He just sliced around a little to hear me-- to hear me scream. His grip was confident." 

"And then what?" He dropped an alcohol wipe in the rubbish bin. "Did you kill him?"

"No. I just." Will's fists clenched on his lap, his brow furrowing. "I just ran. He was in my house, Hannibal. My house was safe. I thought a lot about what he might have done with the dogs to get them out of the way. I still don't know what he's done with my dogs." 

Hannibal pulled his desk chair over. "Tell me what happened, Will."

"I went to sleep at at three in the morning after a nightmare. I woke up around six in the middle of another nightmare, and I." Will took a soft breath. "I was tied to one of the crossbeams of my living room ceiling by my wrists. I thought it was another dream at first, but it was too calm." 

Hannibal motioned for Will to take a drink of water.

"I wasn't scheduled to go in to the complex today, no one was expecting me anywhere. He knew that. I don't know how. I tried to get out but the knot was pretty well tied. He came out of the bathroom with surgical tools out, with my gun strapped to his leg, and he started prodding me with a scapel. Going on and on about how I was almost perfect, just on the brink, couldn't I see?" The word squeezed itself through his clenched teeth. " Just a few more steps, he said."

"You talked back."

Will tilted his head in confirmation. "He cut me over the ribs for that, and then I guess he decided he liked the sound of me screaming myself hoarse so he kept going. He stopped himself after a while and knocked me out. Took me down from the ceiling and didn't bother tying me up again; I fought him off when I woke up and got away. I couldn't reach the gun so I left. I," Will shifted his body weight around, trying to find a more comfortable position. "couldn't tell if he'd stay in my house."

"How did you get here?" 

"I drove. I ran into the woods at first, but he went back inside without giving much of a chase. I retuned to grab the car keys in the foyer."

Hannibal sat quietly for a moment, thinking. He was sure that his face showed how monumentally stupid he thought Will's initiative was-- but then again, Will was a very fast, very clever creature. Far be it for him to judge the mongoose; Will was at this moment sitting safe, if not sound, in front of him. 

He leant back in his chair minutely. "Why did he do it, Will? The man was actually present in the room with you; is there nothing of him you can see?"

Will's eyes flickered up at him quickly, establishing a split second of eye contact by accident. He seemed mildly displeased that Hannibal had pushed, strangely caught off guard. Why? These questions were rote. "He wanted me to belong to him. He, uhm." His face was carefully blank. "He was sure I was on the brink of compliance. Of accepting complicity in murder, of accepting murder itself. He thought I'd be… becoming. As a killer." Will fidgeted. "I don't know what gave him that idea."

Hannibal wasn't sure what to say. He was in complete agreement, of course, but that in itself sent trickles of jealousy coursing through his veins.

Will looked up again at Hannibal's silence. "He was around five ten, five eleven. A hundred fifty pounds at least. American. Dark, crew-cut hair, thick brows, cruel lips. He didn't want to hurt me beyond what he thought was necessary, he thought I'd cross over to his side quickly. His knuckles were battered flat. Scar over his left cheekbone, small, but noticeable. Previously broken nose."

Hannibal discreetly recovered his wits. "A man not satisfied with the violence of his profession, then." Much like he himself felt as a young man. 

"Or possibly between professions. Interesting choices."

"What sort of surgeon would actively ruin his hands?" Hannibal wondered out loud. 

"They seemed steady enough to me, if you don't mind me saying."

Hannibal paused. "Of course not." He refilled Will's water. "Where are you staying tonight? I don't believe you'd be amenable to going back to your home right now." Quickly, he ran through a mental inventory to make sure nothing suspicious had been left out in his own home. He should invite Will over.

"You believe correctly. I can find a hotel for the night; I'll call Jack first thing tomorrow morning." He sat up carefully. "I'm sorry to have burst in on your evening like this. I wasn't thinking clearly when I came here; I'm still kind of woozy. Thank you for your help."

"It was nothing, Will. Anything for a friend," replied Hannibal magnanimously. He stood and helped Will up. "In fact, if you'd like to, I wouldn't mind if you stayed at my home tonight. I don't believe you thought to take your wallet with you along with your keys?" He stooped by his desk, remembering his briefcase.

Will startled. "You're right." Looking up at Hannibal wryly, he steadied himself on the chair and considered the offer for a moment. "Are you sure you wouldn't mind?" 

"Those were my exact words, yes." 

"Then I'll come with you. Thank you, Dr Lecter."

Turning to lock his office doors, Hannibal missed the bright-eyed, shark-toothed grin on Will's face as they stepped into the hallway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to clarify some criminal profiling terms and concepts first.  
> The FBI and other law enforcement agencies sometimes, though perhaps less frequently now, classify serial offenders as 'organised,' 'disorganised,' or 'mixed;' the reason these labels aren't as popular anymore is because of their ambiguity and patchwork coverage. 'Organised' killers are higher functioning and plan out their attacks; they will usually bring their own weapons to the crime and take care in covering up their tracks. They will also tend to drive vehicles to help transport their kills and to reach vics farther from their base of operations. 'Disorganised' killers are generally hindered by anxiety disorders, paranoia, delusions, &c. they are less in control of their faculties. They find their murder weapons at the site of their killings and make little to no effort to hide their identities. The bodies are generally not moved away from where they were killed. 'Mixed' means a mix of organised and disorganised, which basically covers every other sort of serial killer(e.g. spree killers, mafia assassins, you name it).
> 
> Also, plot point-- Franklin hasn't bit the dust yet.
> 
> Ok, that's it.

Hannibal watched Will eat the bacon and sausage omelette contentedly from behind his kitchen island, trying subtly to ply him with more coffee. Will had recovered from his concussion quite speedily, but the cuts on his chest still bled if he moved too suddenly. He was draped in one of Hannibal's cheaper shirts, a white oxford collar button down that had long since become too casual for Hannibal's customary three-piece affair; Hannibal had thrown out Will's shirt from the night before, liberally shredded and crusted with blood as it was. The button down was large enough that the collar sagged a little against Will's collarbone, revealing a strip of bandage looped over his trapezius. Hannibal thought idly that he could certainly get used to seeing Will in his clothes.

Will, to Hannibal's quiet satisfaction, seemed reluctant to part from the warm, welcoming interior of Hannibal's house, but he insisted on leaving around eight after another shower. Hannibal called a taxi for Will and politely walked him out the front door as he dialled Crawford. The temperature was only a few degrees lower outside, but Hannibal knew that Will's newly acquired shirt was only barely adequate at keeping the Baltimore cold out. He thought about offering a jacket, but decided against it.

Will spoke with Crawford for a few minutes. "Jack wants me to come in," he said, after hanging up. "He's sent a team over to my place, and he wants to debrief me ASAP." He tugged self-consciously at the overly long cuffs of his shirt, staring at his feet. "Thank you again. I'll get your shirt cleaned before I give it back to you."

"It's no trouble." Hannibal saw the taxi turn onto his street and reached in the pockets of his morning gown, remembering to give Will enough money for a ride to the FBI complex. Will nodded his head in thanks.

Tilting his head a little, Hannibal admired Will's drowsy profile in the morning air; the thought of Will's scent on his clothes was tempting, but he talked himself out of stealing it back prematurely as Will cautiously manoeuvred down the front steps. "Well, you know Jack will request my presence on your case soon enough. Return it then."

The smaller man made his way down the footpath as the taxi pulled up, trying not to jostle his torso.

"Will?" Hannibal called, as Will opened the taxi door. "I won't be available at all tomorrow, but if you and Jack make any progress, please leave me a message."

Will nodded and got in the taxi. 

Closing his front door to the sound of the cab accelerating down the street, Hannibal started drafting his next macabre symphony.  


\----

Will's nighttime visitor was either a compulsive imbecile or apathetic about the repercussions of his trespass. The ghastly hour at which he'd shown up at Will's home pointed to a residence nearby, perhaps temporary--a hotel-- or permanent-- a house. Profiling manuals would have categorised the man as disorganised based solely on his obvious lack of interest in distancing himself from his crime; the rigours of his job, though, exacting and meticulous, said otherwise. Thinking back to what Will had said last night-- _he thought I'd cross over to his side quickly_ \-- Hannibal understood. He'd thought there had been no risk, just a brief conversation between two men on the same page-- any trespasses easily forgiven. The man had some psychopathic tendencies; he was presumptuous, perhaps a little impulsive or obsessive. Evidently not as insightful about Will's condition as he thought he was. Hannibal's own technique of slow encroachment, he was confident, was the most effective way to invade the fortress of Will's moral obligations-- however sluggardly the pace was.

He wasn't hard for Hannibal to find. Jeremy Paszkiewicz, thirty-three years of age, was born to Polish immigrants in Baltimore; he attended the Perelman School of Medicine at UPenn, was member of the school boxing club, and graduated to a surgeon residency at Inova Fairfax Hospital at twenty-six. Inova Fairfax was barely twenty minutes from Will's home in Wolf Trap; Paszkiewicz himself lived a good half hour away, which, honestly, was no hardship to a man with a motor vehicle. 

It would be laughably simple to get a hold of him for at least fourteen hours-- plenty of time for what Hannibal had in mind-- as Paszkiewicz had neither house mates nor frequent callers. At nightfall, Hannibal packed his tupperware jars, waterproof tarps, a cooler, and filleting knives into a black nylon duffel, carefully fleshing out how tomorrow evening was going to go. He wouldn't have to cancel any appointments on Monday; it was only an hour's drive to Wolf Trap from Baltimore, and Jeremy wouldn't be home until six at the earliest. Jack had only called to say that Will had retired to a hotel for the time being, so he was probably safe in assuming that Paszkiewicz's identity wasn't known to them yet. 

Checking his schedule and his duffle one more time, Hannibal took a luxurious bath and went to bed. 

\----

After a truly harrowing session with Franklin, Hannibal was looking forwards to examining the quality of Jeremy's sirloin equivalents. He'd had a cup of coffee and read the newspaper outside his office building before heading out at a quarter to five; now, at six thirty, the sun had almost set. He parked about five houses down and arranged his suit jacket fastidiously on a hanger; he then tugged his duffel from the passenger seat and walked briskly around to the back of Paszkiewicz's house. He put on his clear plastic wetworks suit and broke in through a rear window facing the tree line as discreetly as possible. It'd be easiest to take Paszkiewicz as he walked though the front door, weary and unsuspecting; what awaited the surgeon tonight, though, would be nothing further from the comforts of home after a long day at work.

Just barely after Hannibal had finished scouting out all of the rooms in the house and designating one as his operating theatre, Jeremy's car rumbled quietly up the driveway, inconsiderate high beams piercing through the half-shuttered windows into the foyer. Hannibal stepped hurriedly next to the door.

The boot of the car popped open, and Hannibal could hear something heavy being dragged out over the lip of the bumper; after a few tense minutes of strained grunting and the sound of whatever was in the boot brushing around on the concrete steps, a key scraped against the metal of the lock and the tumbler shifted. 

A untidy, dark-haired head shuffled in through the doorway, and Hannibal brought his hands down in a hammer fist as hard as his shoulders would allow him. The man crumpled face-first into the linoleum floor immediately, his weighty package slipping off of his back and smacking meatily against the door jamb; he was still conscious, but dazed and quite possibly concussed. Hannibal pulled him and the cloth-wrapped object in and closed the door quickly, turning on the lights in the entrance hallway. Kneeling carefully, Hannibal adjusted his shirtsleeves and flipped the body over.

He was greeted by the slack-jawed visage of a disoriented Will Graham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the support, everyone. Just a notice that the next chapter might be a bit slow coming.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting in a bit of a hurry; forgive me if I constantly fix grammar errors as I find them. Thank you all so much for your support! 
> 
> Also, next chapter will take a while; hopefully I'll have it up by the end of June

Impossible. It was _impossible._

Hannibal sat abruptly on his heels, one hand still firmly grasping Will's muted plaid shirt. Mind racing like lightning, he moved to rise, planning on leaving posthaste lest Will realise exactly who had given him his second head injury of the week-- but it was too late. 

"H…Hannibal. What the hell are…" Will blinked woozily and tried to sit up. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Hannibal stilled immediately. He calculated the odds; it was very likely that Will might write off his presence as a hallucination, and if he did, Hannibal wouldn't have to give up on his grand masquerade so early. But looking at the situation at hand-- a suspicious package just about the dimensions of a human body with contents of similar solidity, Will driving Paszkiewicz's car, Will's unexpected presence as, ironically, a trespasser in his trespasser's home-- Hannibal was intrigued. Perhaps he could stay a little longer, given that he left before Will got a hold of his wits. Drug him, let him wake up sweating and alone and none the wiser. If that didn't work out, leaving would be no hardship; he had drawn up a multitude of contingency plans long before he became known as the Chesapeake Ripper. He would be reluctant to execute them-- Will would probably be the first casualty-- but needs must when the devil drove. Perhaps it was all wishful thinking. He held the little spark of hope that Will had finally gone overboard close to his chest-- unwilling to discard it, but by no means optimistic. 

Hannibal kept to a tone he'd used before in Will's presence-- moderate parallels with Will's memory would be more convincing. "Hello, Will," he murmured, standing stock still in the night silence. "I could ask the same of you."

Will threw his head as far back as it was possible considering his position on the floor and guffawed, and Hannibal let go of his shirt in tense surprise. It was a disjointed, manic sound; it jarred Will's head violently, visibly inducing nausea. Hannibal couldn't tell if the reaction was a product of the concussion. 

Will raised a hand to press at his temples and grimaced. "I don't feel so good." 

"Water?" Hannibal offered politely. This would probably be his only chance to leave; he was still unsure whether or not he would take it. 

"Yes." Will massaged his temples with the heels of his hands. "And please don't go. I know you're thinking about it."

Hannibal exhaled quickly, startled. 

Will looked at him through his fingers; the focus of his eyes was unnaturally intense. "Get me that water and I'll explain." 

Hannibal's curiosity almost won out over the path of least resistance. He knew it wouldn't be a huge risk; he still had a knife on his person and Will's reaction time was already severely impaired. He was slightly irritated at himself for aggregating Will's injuries, but it was opportune; Will, with his apparently very hard head, would be no worse for wear. However, he knew that the longer he stayed, the more vividly Will would remember his presence. Will had promised to explain himself, which piqued Hannibal's interest; Hannibal, unfortunately, wasn't very eager to reciprocate.

He flicked on the lights in each room he passed through, rummaging through his duffel for a sedative to dissolve in the water. Moving to the kitchen, he found Jeremy's mugs and rinsed one perfunctorily, filling it with tap water and dropping the tablet in. Spotting the refrigerator, Hannibal fished around in the freezer for ice with a napkin on the table, tying it into a soon-to-be structurally compromised ice pack. 

Will made a pleased face at the cup in Hannibal's hand when he returned. He motioned for Hannibal to help him sit upright; taking the mug, he downed the contents in one long gulp, head tilted back and bared throat working vigorously as Hannibal unabashedly stared.

They sat in silence for a few moments, before Hannibal remembered the makeshift icepack soaking the palm of his left hand. 

"Something for your head," he said, holding the serviette under Will's occipital lobe and applying moderate pressure. He kept his eyes on Will's face, watching curiously; something about Will's laugh earlier warned him that this was not the Will he knew, the Will that he was acclimatised to. This Will was not afraid of eye contact. He was a stranger, unmasked by the concussion; Hannibal was fascinated, but he was also having a hard time trying to place it without direction. 

Conveniently, Will's eyes began to droop; struggling to stay awake and possibly recognising Hannibal's foul play, his lips opened to let out a betrayed-sounding distortion of what might have been Hannibal's name. He collapsed into Hannibal's arms, eyelids fluttering, falling into a drowsy, half-conscious stupor.

Hannibal let Will down and flipped him around again so that he was face flat on the floor, in the case that Will happened to vomit any time during the night; the now-developing bump on his head was in close in proximity to the bump from the other night, so much that they were barely distinguishable from each other through Will's thick, dark hair. He rose and discarded the napkin, sweeping the house for any of his belongings, turning off lights along the way; satisfied, Hannibal slung his duffel over his shoulder and exited the house through the broken back window to the sound of Will's quiet breathing.

Driving back to Baltimore, Hannibal absently noted a faint feeling of regret, that he could not have stayed to hear Will's undoubtedly captivating explanation.

\----

Hannibal hadn't planned for a shortage of meat that night, so he had to resort to buying baby back ribs for dinner at the local Whole Foods. The amount of money he had saved on meat by way of his night killings was positively uproarious considering the unfortunate effects of inflation; he was honestly quite proud of himself for being so resourceful, no matter that he had the money to spend. Waste not, want not; Garrett Jacob Hobbs had the right idea. It was actually quite fortunate that he hadn't planned any dinner parties for the next week.

He had the pleasure of acquiring the card of a remarkably ornery businessman on his way to the register.

\----

In the morning, Hannibal prepared some breakfast and checked his answering machine. As of yet, there had been no calls from either Will or Crawford, so he dismissed the previous night's events from his mind. Depending on how bizarre or personal Will's escapade at Paszkiewicz's home was, Will might not even bring up his 'hallucination' of Hannibal to Hannibal himself. He made sure to stay on guard either way, though, in the event that Will didn't conform to his plan.

The route to his office was uneventful; when he stepped into his office, however, the landline telephone was in the midst of ringing insistently from its perch at the side of his desk. Closing the door and setting his briefcase down next to his chair, he picked up the phone.

"This is Dr Hannibal Lecter's office, how may I help you?" In truth, he was already building some mild irritation; he had designated the hours during which he would would take phone calls, and this was not one of them.

There was a moment of stern, muffled dialogue; then, "Dr Lecter." Crawford's voice finally emanated from the cheap plastic. "I'm sorry about that." He paused. "Will's called off the investigation. Says he knows that this was a one time thing and that the man was battling depression. Probably committed suicide already. You have any input? Will looks distracted, but he doesn't look distressed."

Hannibal relaxed and his ire dissipated. "I am inclined to trust Will's judgement here, Jack."

"Ok. There are barely any leads anyways; if he's out of the way, all the better. Thank you for your time, Dr Lecter."

Hannibal returned the handset to its receiver, contemplative. From what Crawford had implied-- that there wasn't enough information-- Will had to have kept information from the FBI when he was debriefed. There was no way the FBI could fail to catch Paszkiewicz with the detailed information Will had given Hannibal; Will obviously wasn't interested in involving the FBI beyond the necessary initial alert. But why? It was incontrovertibly related to Will's presence at Jeremy's house the night previous. 

Retrieving his patient files from his briefcase, Hannibal once again felt malcontent for not having stayed to hear Will out. 

\----

Hannibal left work at seven PM. 

He arrived home in a comfortable mood, relaxing into the welcoming ambience of his home turf as he locked the front door behind him. Halfway into the foyer of his home, he stopped, veins suddenly flooding with a painful jolt of adrenaline, blood pounding at his belly and in his ears; he took deep, slow breaths, trying to subdue the unanticipated swell of jurisdictional rage. He rapidly became aware of what had set his territorial instinct off-- a pair of worn, brown leather lace-ups sat innocently by the entryway to his living room. Closer inspection revealed that they were Will's shoes; his hackles settled. For a moment he felt the anticipation of one day absorbing Will and Will's property into his sphere of possessions. Almost immediately, though, the hairs on his neck stood back up-- Will's presence alone indicated that last night might not have developed in a favourable direction. 

Sliding a scalpel out from his briefcase and hiding it inside his shirtsleeves, Hannibal strode calmly into the living room.

Will was curled up comfortably on the sofa, tapping away at his phone. He looked up when Hannibal entered the room, then manoeuvred smoothy to his feet before Hannibal could speak. 

"Wait a moment," he called, hurrying into the kitchen. Hannibal heard his refrigerator open. His face scrunched in confusion. He had to admit, it was difficult, standing awkwardly in the middle of his own house listening to Will rummage around inside his refrigerator. It also made him feel mildly satisfied-- Will, his precious mongoose, felt comfortable snuffling around in Hannibal's refrigerator-- a refrigerator that had just recently been home to an excess of human meat. 

Honestly, Hannibal reprimanded himself as he waited, he had a terrible track record in self-restraint concerning potential pet projects. He rather hoped that this one wouldn't blow up too spectacularly on him.

After a few minutes, Will returned, dragging the same black bag from the night before. Hannibal winced as it progressed across his pristine tile floor; he'd have to wipe it down later, when he had the chance. God knew where it had been, before Will had tugged it across Paszkiewicz's dirty concrete driveway. 

"You interrupted me, you know. I had to change plans." Will glanced at Hannibal reprovingly and let the bag drop between them. Hannibal looked at him incredulously. There was no sign of stress or tenseness in the way Will carried himself; shoulders back and spine curved, he looked positively regal. Hannibal wondered absently where the nightmare-plagued Will had gone, and then decided that he liked this sharp confidence infinitely more.

Will sat back in the sofa, crossing his legs and placing his hands in his lap. He looked expectantly at Hannibal, waiting. Hannibal had an inkling of what he wanted, but he didn't feel like stepping into the game so fast.

"Water?" Hannibal asked, falling back on propriety. His curiosity--which had nagged at him occasionally throughout the day-- was close to being sated, but for some reason, he felt as if asking after the contents of the bag would be akin to giving in. Sooner or later, he would have to-- there was no more avoiding Will-- but this way, he could control the pace. 

Will grinned mockingly. Hannibal mentally wrinkled his nose; this was as good as confirmation that Will remembered Hannibal's presence last night. It also probably meant that Will was going to continue in the same vein. Hannibal stalked off to his kitchen, mollified; Will wasn't going to make any sudden movements, not yet. For now, he could indulge in his concern for his refrigerator-- how in the world had Will made that bag fit? 

Opening the door to his refrigerator, he saw that all of the racks had been taken out and their comestible burdens placed at the bottom of the unit. Grimacing unhappily at the disorder and the potentially crushed ingredients, he forced himself to shut the door; he would take care of it later. All of a sudden he was feeling a lot less charitable towards Will. 

He filled a glass quickly and returned to his living room. 

"Drink a third of the water first," Will demanded. Raising an eyebrow, Hannibal complied; if he hadn't just drugged Will the night previous, he would have felt a little betrayed. He had been making progress with Will; sedating him was regrettable. He'd had a sterling record with his treatment of food until now. The things Will Graham made him do.

"Did you expect me to drug you?" 

Will sipped at the water. "It was a distinct possibility." _After I trusted you last night_ went unsaid. 

He shifted, the sound of his wool trousers loud in the backdrop of their breathing. "So. You promised an explanation, Will." He gripped the handle of the hidden scalpel tightly in his palm, just in case. 

Will lolled his head on his shoulder, knees drawn up primly, and looked patiently at Hannibal. "Go look in the bag."

Hannibal stood up cautiously and made his way over to the package. Finding a zipper on the bottom, he pulled it steadily down; they parted to reveal the frozen body of the recently deceased Jeremy Paszkiewicz.

Hannibal experienced a moment of righteous vindication.

Glancing back up at Will, Hannibal confirmed that there would be no interference from him if he chose to examine the body further. He squeezed the corpse's visible shoulder; it had evidently been frozen throughout the night, and was probably still safe for consumption. Maybe if this all worked out well, he could have Paszkiewicz for dinner. He tugged Paszkiewicz's clammy body further out of his temporary coffin and immediately he found the cause of death-- the back of Jeremy's head had been obliterated, the reddish-pink remnants of his brain slopping over Hannibal's fingers. Some large bone shards had been pushed into his cranial cavity by the violence of a well-aimed blow; one extremely powerful strike seemed to have crushed a fragment through the front of the man's neck. There was joy in this death, radiating from the precise impact points of the murder weapon; no rage, no righteous fury, just smug enjoyment in a hands-on operation. In fact, the murder weapon was stuffed inside with Paszkiewicz as well-- a child's hoe with a steel head and a wood grip. 

"What am I to make of this, Will?" Hannibal looked sideways at him, feeling more optimistic by the second. The image of Will cheerfully beating in Jeremy's head with a miniature gardening tool was really more attractive than he thought it had a right to be. 

Will smiled slyly, his self-congratulatory air curling around Hannibal's shoulders like perfume. "I was originally going to do some arts and crafts."

Hannibal could barely keep his mouth from twitching into a grin. Finally, finally. Who knew that home intrusion would be Will's last straw? He was pleased Will had come to him; though, considering the night before, it might have been influenced by his apparently untimely appearance. 

Settling Paszkiewicz back on to the floor, Hannibal wiped his hand on the body. "I was wondering when you'd finally kill," he said reservedly, "though I admit I didn't predict that you would take it up so…so intimately, so quickly." He was proud, so proud, but he couldn't let it show yet.

Will laughed pleasantly, twisting in his seat to cross his legs. "Hannibal, does this look like my first foray?" He folded his hands over his belly.

Hannibal could barely breathe for a second. Will wasn't newly christened; Will wasn't newly anything at all. Hannibal could imagine the glistening red blood coating Will's hands after some gruesome kill, his euphoric joy, watching his prey die violently; he felt a magnificent flare of arousal. A bystander might have mistaken his expression for one of horror.

"I was getting rusty, so I decided to go hunting again; paid a little visit to Mr Paszkiewicz here. I wasn't expecting you, actually." Will grinned a small shark's grin. "I knew you only picked the ill-mannered." 

Hannibal couldn't stop his own smile from breaking through this time. The game was up, and he hadn't lost any hands at all. Not yet, at least; it remained to see if the FBI would ever catch on. Acquisition of a trustworthy fellow conspirator was not a novel prospect, but not unwelcome, either.

"And then I understood that you had felt protective. Extension of your property, and all. So I figured I'd give him to you. As a gift after reintroductions, you know. I forgive you for drugging me, you whip up some fancy French dish out of him for me. I'll help." Will watched Hannibal's exhilaration attentively, a hint of fondness leeching through his triumphant air.

"How did I miss this?" Hannibal whispered, struggling to keep the full extent of his surprise from leaking through.

Will stood up from the sofa and straddled the corpse, leaning dangerously far into Hannibal's space. "I pick a killer, any killer, and I hide behind their insecurities, their unstable personalities. I can see them all, Hannibal; that was never a lie. But just so you know-- I do play favourites." 

Hannibal stretched his neck slightly, turning his head to better catch Will's heady elation. His fingers loosened their grip on Jeremy's frigid body. Will's eyes bored into his, keen and penetrating; Hannibal was mesmerised and not a little infatuated. 

"Who are you now, Will?" Hannibal wondered quietly. His eyes flickered to and from Will's neck, tantalisingly close; Will displayed the side of his nape in permission. His soft, perfumed body heat gentled Hannibal's fierce focus; hands sticky with Paszkiewicz's decomposing brain matter, he drew in Will's singular aroma from under the man's perpetually cheap aftershave. 

Will leaned in and exhaled into Hannibal's ear in a whisper, the air coiling delicately past his neck-- 

_"I'm you."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aw yeahhh!!!! one more chapter to go


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use only the term 'psychopath' in the psychiatric sense unless indicated otherwise. 'Narcissist' (nonerotic), 'sociopath,' etc. are all of the common dictionary definitions.
> 
>  
> 
> **Thank you all so much for waiting this last chapter out, and for the fantastic support in the interim.**

Hannibal had the presence of mind to draw away. 

He was momentarily furious at his obvious lack of solid footing, his inchoate rage jolting him back into equilibrium. Will might have been the most attractive thing in his home at the moment-- and Hannibal's covetousness knew no bounds-- but he had not gotten so far in life without a healthy sense of self-preservation. He had Will, more or less as he'd envisioned, but far too quickly and unexpectedly for him to take the man's grand reveal for granted. Were Hannibal a man of less control, impulsive and susceptible to suggestions of instant gratification, he would be hard-pressed to resist a tableau like this--Will had put on Hannibal's mask, his desires, his rage and irritation, his self-assured bearing, he had seen Hannibal for what he was and, impossibly, _understood_ \-- but other people, other killers lurked beneath his skin, unidentified and unpredictable. Hannibal had planned to use Will's transient grasp of these disparate personalities against Crawford's investigation of the Ripper, but his new knowledge of Will's well-hidden mastery over this repertoire threw his plans awry. Certainly, Hannibal found Will's attention flattering, but far be it that his eagerness facilitated his downfall. 

"Naturally, I have questions." 

"Of course," Will said graciously, recovering himself. "But I expect an apology first. That BDZ? That was crude, Hannibal." 

"Flunitrazepam, seven milligrams to compensate for your sleeping pills," Hannibal said, discreetly palpating Paszkiewicz's shoulder again to reevaluate the stiffness. "I was hoping you'd succumb to mild amnesia or hallucinations from the concussion; anterograde amnesia from the sedative would have been excessive, but not unwelcome. Be that as it may, your head was surprisingly hard. I'm moderately sure you would have been sufficiently animated within the hour without the sedative, despite my best efforts." He let loose an expression that was a cross between a mild grimace and a subtle smirk. "You have my sincere apologies. This was unquestionably worth my time."

Will managed to look adoring and faintly miffed at the same time. "Roofies are a schedule I in the United States." 

Hannibal shifted his shoulders, uncomfortable with lethargic weight of Jeremy's body, to look wryly at Will. Why the man felt the need to state the obvious sometimes baffled him. "I think we're beyond dawdling over legality, Will. It's unfortunate enough that high schoolers have less trouble accessing it than I." Hannibal levered the body back to the ground, carefully holding his hands well away from his clothes. "I admit, Rohypnol is a decidedly unsophisticated way to secure unconsciousness."

"I was on the floor for the whole night next to a decomposing body. I'd consider that fairly unsophisticated, yes," Will drawled.

"Not too damaging an experience, I hope."

"It's nice to know you have such faith in my resilience," Will shot back. "You might have used something with less of an aftereffect," he waved a blasé hand at his head as he relaxed back into the sofa, "but you're probably already aware that I myself use it occasionally to sleep. Go on."

Hannibal leant back on his heels, reevaluating his dinner prospects and gathering his thoughts. He was exhibiting interesting nervous symptoms reminiscent of anxiety, an animal response he knew he was categorically incapable of succumbing to; Will, then, was to blame for his abnormal lack of control and his flawed calculations. Of course the drug had taken Will out for the whole night; he had administered it, he should have known immediately. It'd be a pity if Jeremy were spoiled after all, although Hannibal couldn't recall smelling the sickly sweet stench of decomposition. 

He drew himself back to the situation at hand, turning up the intensity of his gaze. "I may be a forensic psychologist of some repute, Will, but as you know I am neither omniscient nor omnipresent. I am at a loss as to why you chose this particular point in time to reveal your…inclination… to me."

Will crooked his head against his shoulder and inhaled shallowly through his nose as if in response to Hannibal's renewed attention, eyes at half-mast and a characteristic look of faint nausea on his face. The movement was so familiar to Hannibal that for a moment he saw double, the air catching in his windpipe-- vulnerable, self-doubting Will Graham, quietly desperate for a gentle and attentive hand, superimposed on perfection. He knew now that they were one and the same-- different parts of a fragmented identity. Hannibal's intense territorial tendency came back full force, his relative level of comfort restored. No matter that he could never have anticipated this nebulous facet of Will's true nature-- the man was still subconsciously dependent on Hannibal, and that was all the leverage he needed. He was aware that this arrogant confidence was characteristic of the superiority complex his earlier psychiatrists had insisted he had and could prove problematic in general cases, but this supposed manifestation had never caused him to underestimate a target of any kind; he was satisfied that this situation would not prove different.

Will's eyes drifted slowly back to Hannibal's face, once again establishing eye contact. He seemed not to have noticed the return of Hannibal's mental balance. A determined expression settled on his face. "I may collect personalities and idiosyncrasies and psychotic tendencies," he began unhurriedly, "but I don't have the same lofty intelligence, the same access to victims, the same physical prowess, the same technical skill." There was a gratuitous pause as Will waited for Hannibal to appreciate the barrage of indirect compliments. "Killers with simple oeuvres, I can manage. But the ones with such grandiose imagination, such specialised stalking and killing techniques-- I can't steal their occupational capability and their life experience along with their cognitive structure." He paused, looking a little forlorn. "It's very frustrating."

Hannibal was moderately certain he knew which direction this conversation was taking.

"You're personally acquainted with a fraction of all the violent crime I've seen in my life. That fraction, though, has been the most inspired. Beautiful, brilliant, breath-taking." Will's gaze had lost some of its ferocity, sinking into a token rapture at the thought of those visceral few. 

Hannibal probably wouldn't admit to it if asked, but he did preen a bit. It was always good to be admired. 

"Ever since Hobbes-- your first gift--" Will instantly looked a little sardonic. "--perhaps your only real gift. In any event, I'm incapable of performances requiring that extent of skill. As a result I've got a fair backorder that needs urgent satisfying. You've seen the consequences, of course-- I haven't been faking any of the sleepwalking or insomnia."

"And this is where I come in, correct?"

"And this is where you come in."

Hannibal raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You won't have trouble if a murder originally perpetrated by one person is recreated by two?"

"Thankfully, the end justifies the means." Will hesitated. "Though they're not reproductions, either. I would say 'mutation' but the word is…"

"Ugly."

"Yes."

Hannibal mulled quietly. In light of Will's mental control, he recognised that his and Will's newly transformed relationship had the potential to be dangerously volatile. Hannibal knew that he was not, contrary to popular opinion, a high-functioning psychopath, but he _was _a relatively subdued egotist, and his not insignificant ego, justified by his not inconsiderable accomplishments, would not accept an equal. Will was supposed to have been under his relative, if not absolute, control; not mercurial and resistant to Hannibal's singular manipulation. He was, however, drawn to Will's chameleonic ability to reflect Hannibal's own misshapen perfection like a cracked mirror-- and what was more attractive to a narcissist than the narcissist himself? Certainly not a meek and invariable plaything.__

The downside to the plunging depths of Will's grasp of Hannibal's psyche when coupled with his command of law enforcement material was that Will could retreat from Hannibal's headspace as he pleased and repossess an arguably clinical objectivity. Hannibal's reputation would be a formidable opponent to Will's word alone, but he wasn't aware of the extent of Will's knowledge about his twilight trysts. Will's empathy would have been sensational had he applied it in the psychiatric field; thankfully for Hannibal he had not. If Hannibal decided to work in treacherous tandem with Will, though, it would be he measuring his every action and judging his every word lest Will ever secure the upper hand.

Hannibal let some tension out of his posture, changing his body language to convey reluctant capitulation. He set his lips in a long-suffering twist. "Very well, then, Will. Though I do have some stipulations for you to meet if this idea of yours is to become reality; fortunately they are quite simple." Never let it be said that Hannibal Lecter could not appreciate an opportunity when it presented itself.

Will urged him on with a nod of his head.

"If I indicate that you should give or retain information from your colleagues, you must comply. You must not lie to me, no matter the significance of what it is you desire to conceal. If Jack presents you with a case, I must be fully informed of anything you unearth and any action you take in the course of the investigation, with a grace period of twelve hours. I will still be monitoring your mental development, but more attentively." Hannibal watched Will closely, keeping his tone as businesslike as possible-- too easily, he could demand too much. "Essentially, I will control your life. Nothing has indicated that you have a life outside of your cases, in any event. With the exception of your dogs, I will see that your leisure time is spent well." 

Will noticeably didn't choose to mention his handyman and fishing hobbies. "And the consequences, if I don't abide by these… rules?"

Hannibal couldn't afford to teach Will his art and allow him free reign as well; there was only ever one real solution. He shrugged slightly, as if it were a negligible matter. "I will kill you."

Will looked sufficiently contemplative, but it was evident that he was more than willing to give up what any other person would deem a fantastic amount of control to sate his violent predilections. After all, there wasn't much else Will had to live for or safeguard from Hannibal; his most private predispositions were known to the psychiatrist already. Not to mention that Will did keep things from his coworkers and tell all to Hannibal already; doing it on command wouldn't be difficult. Will's seclusion aside, Hannibal was still taking a risk-- Will was no psychopath, but he could become one at whim. Hannibal was acutely aware of the precariousness of dealing with a self-serving, high-functioning sociopath. 

"I think that's acceptable." Will stood up, exuding an atypical confidence, and thrust out a hand to shake. Hannibal took note of his effort to be gentlemanly. Accepting Will's hand with his own blood-slick one, he reflected on how suitably symbolic Jeremy's liquefied cerebral matter was smashed between their palms.

\----

Hannibal took Will along for his next few excursions, teaching him to gut and preserve organs, first in the manner of the deer hunter and then in the method of the cannibal. Will's cuts steadily became unfaltering and methodical, a testament to his precise control with a gun and his infinite concentration. If he focused, he would be on the cusp of professional accuracy; though when he slipped into the mind of some student surgeon or the other, more often than not, to his infinite disappointment, he would jerk violently out of his synergistic haze to find his handiwork morbidly sub-par. Will's execution was not yet instinctive, buried in muscle memory. Hannibal was always summarily informed by a distraught Will that the experience was emotionally agonising.

Lessons in cooking and propriety were certainly more gratuitous on Hannibal's part but they seemed also to fill a gap in Will's knowledge, perhaps the discerning taste of his more elusive, privileged personalities. These lessons went at a slower pace, as Will did not take to it as easily as anatomy or medical technique; it was just as well, in that Will's slaughterhouse work formed the basis of all additional practices. Until Will could prepare body parts for consumption, Hannibal would do his own shopping. 

Needless to say, the number of missing persons and unexplained deaths in Maryland increased almost exponentially in the passing months.

\----

They ate dinner with each other more often and started on lunches as well. Meals together allowed Hannibal the opportunity to saturate Will with etiquette lessons, bidding him take note of the cutlery placement-- "That's the pudding spoon, Will"-- the goblet variations-- "Red wine, dark red, white, ice, sparkling"-- and table manners-- "Never turn the tines up, and please put your fork down when you drink." 

"Will," Hannibal asked once, glancing at the man from across his pâté, "you never did really talk about your nightmares. Were they real as well?"

Will let out a hoot totally inappropriate for the dining table, teeth bared and head tilted. "Oh, they were real, alright," he chuckled, "but they made me sweat and squirm in a different way, if you know what I mean." He grinned flirtatiously. 

Hannibal did know what he meant. He studiously took note and wondered if it was a product of Will's subconscious or the influence of an errant personality.

"What gets you going?" Will prodded carelessly. "Squeezing people's slick insides? Eating them?"

Hannibal tilted his head in a facsimile of mild contemplation. "Destroying beautiful things arouses me."

Will quieted, drawing clear parallels between Hannibal's admission and his unorthodox relationship with the doctor; uncomfortable that Hannibal had responded in truth and unsure of how to reply, Will attacked his food with a single minded focus ordinarily reserved for avoiding eye contact. 

\----

Will mastered the art of the dramatically comprehensive dissection on a Saturday after solving a string of triple murders. 

Hannibal had cleared his schedule for the rest of the day as a bit of a celebration, nabbing a thirty-two year old sous chef for Will to practice on. He had slowly been conditioning Will to look forwards to rewards for solving cases; it taught him to look towards Hannibal to provide for his happiness, as well as his needs and his wants. 

Will's blade had glided effortlessly through the woman's belly, sawing and severing far past her last wet burble of terror. Skin flayed and pulled off, muscles separated and pinned, organs sectioned and on display, Will staggered back to survey his masterpiece. He had deemed it worthy, but his success struck Hannibal as too heady to control.

Hannibal could practically smell Will's arousal from where he was standing. Will looked as if he were on the edge of completion-- his pupils were dilated, his breathing unsteady, hands clenching and neck tendons tense; Hannibal could see Will's personal emotions struggling for dominance. After all, he knew his own enthusiasm, and the raw pleasure of a kill often forced him to detach himself from the scene to retain awareness of his surroundings. Will had admitted to feeling no ecstasy other than that of the base, unskilled majority; experiencing even a diluted facsimile of Hannibal's exhilaration, professional pride, and practiced cautionary reaction for the first time had shoved his own floundering sentiments to the surface. Presumably, they contained a carnal element only realised before in Will's dreams, if the conspicuous weight between Will's thighs was any more indication.

He watched Will sway; the smaller man's gaze was anchored to the carnage as if it were the sun, gore dripping from his brow. Time could do no better than to stop now, cemented knee-deep in viscera and slowly congealing blood.

Hannibal licked his lips, cock filling in his houndstooth tweed at the decadent sight of Will's trembling. "How powerful do you feel now?"

Will sagged slowly against the opposite table with his scalpel clasped like a gruesome steel lifeline, still reeling from his orgasmic _tour de force_ but trying valiantly to suppress all visible evidence of it. "I…I feel like God." His voice was faint and weak.

Hannibal exulted in Will's stupor, inexorably proud of his living triumph. "As well you should, good Will. But you must never forget that you were only created in my image."

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some rambling thoughts.
> 
> Writing a fic from the POV of a pseudo-psychopath was difficult; it was easy enough to record observations and actions in the manners characteristic of a clinical high-functioning, low-plc-r-scoring psychopath, but making it descriptive enough for an audience was so out of character I had to make compromises. So if you notice that Hannibal has imparted some not-very-psychopath-like observations in the fic, it's because of this. Hannibal's character specifically was also difficult-- I've never read a psychoanalysis on his character in either the book or the show, so he's very hard to read from what I could see. He exudes such confidence and displays long-term planning abilities that it's hard to tell if he was meant to be interpreted as the standard self-accepting psychopath-- forget about the anomalies that distinguish himself from 'normal' people, remember when he thinks about it at length but not suffer otherwise from the knowledge-- or if he lives in a world above that, but is discriminating and careful enough that he never appears totally otherworldly. It's easy to forget that 'manipulation' and 'compulsive lying' and other PCL-R checklist items like those are evaluations from an outside eye-- a psychopath doesn't always consciously plan out his or her every devious move-- but that doesn't necessarily mean I should factor those into his personality. What is convenient or interesting becomes caught in his or her sphere of influence. Man. yeah


End file.
